by Nina Bruhns
Feelings of grief and anger, and the fierce need to avenge her father’s death. The same need that had driven her to accept a job with CIA in the first place, and had kept her so dedicated to her work as an analyst.
Except now she no longer had the comfort of a finger to point blame. She genuinely liked the Russian people she’d met since her arrival. They were not the monsters she’d wanted to believe her whole life. They were ordinary laughing, loving people, just like her.
And she liked Nikolai so much, with a genuine depth of feeling. He was an enemy warrior, but he’d suffered as much as she had. Perhaps more. At least she still had one loving parent left, and a large and nurturing extended family. Who did he have to soothe his hurt and grief? A father who seemed worse than none at all.
So she’d cried for herself, and for him, and for the frustration that she could never be the person who would hold him in her arms to comfort.
Or to laugh with.
Or to love.
Goddamn mission. Why had she come here, anyway? Why did she have to meet a man like Nikolai? A man she could so easily see herself falling for in a big way? A man she could never have.
Because he was the one man who might well have to choose between his country . . . and her life. And she could never be sure which way he’d choose. Or be forced to choose.
It wasn’t fair.
On either of them.
So she hid out, folding herself as small as possible, and fought her demons, hoping to come to some sort of mental resolution. Dinnertime arrived. A young rating stuck his head around the corner of the hatch barrel she was hiding behind and made eating motions. She gave him a watery smile and shook her head. She wasn’t hungry, and the thought of facing anyone, let alone coming up with idle dinner chitchat, made her stomach hurt.
But the interruption did serve to bring her out of her funk. She had work she should be doing. She really should go to the stateroom and fetch her laptop, run some more photos, maybe even start another cover article to send to her boss, along with a progress report—or rather, nonprogress report.
Tomorrow would be a big day for the scientists—the start of their intensive sampling and data gathering. From now on, until the expedition reached the Arctic ice pack, Ostrov would halt each day to conduct several hours of research.
Clint Walker would be running UUV sorties practically nonstop. She was excited to see how the unmanned vehicles worked. And couldn’t wait to see Trent Griff’s coral gardens, as well as learn more about all the other interesting projects. Along with her real job of finding the hidden SD card, there would be plenty of things to keep her occupied on the voyage.
Which was good. Because then she wouldn’t have time to think about other, more personal issues . . .
Like how on earth she was going to sleep in Nikolai’s bed without wanting him there with her. Or asking him to join her, for however fleeting an affair. She bitterly regretted not taking him up on his proposition at the hotel, back when he was just an anonymous body. For now that she knew him, she wanted him all the more. But she also knew all the reasons she should leave him be.
Somehow she had to find the strength to resist her own desire.
And do her damn job.
With a sigh, she lowered her knees from under her chin, wiped her eyes, and shook out the cricks in her bones. Tears and feeling sorry for herself were not going to help the situation. She’d just have to learn to live with her aching heart.
Determinedly, she got up and headed forward. However, the last thing she wanted was to run into Nikolai while she was feeling this vulnerable. So she took the long way back to the stateroom, down the ladder to the lower deck and along the twisty length of the sub, passing under the mess hall where everyone was still gathered for dinner.
Massively relieved that she hadn’t passed anyone but random crew members along the way, she swung open the stateroom door.
And got the shock of her life.
Nikolai was standing in the middle of the tiny compartment, a towel draped around his neck.
Other than that, he was completely, delectably, mouthwateringly naked.
11
Oh. My. God.
Water drops glistened on Nikolai’s bare skin, catching the glow from the small green desk lamp. His honey-gold hair was dark and wet, rivulets dripping down his angled cheekbones onto his shoulders and chest, slick and shadowed in the dim light. On his right pec was an elaborate tattoo that looked like . . . eagles maybe? . . . and a double anchor. His legs were slightly spread, his feet planted against the motion of the boat.
Lord have mercy. There was no doubt, whatsoever, of his gender.
All that made her mouth water, but what got her in the end were his eyelashes. They were long and tawny and spiked with moisture, making him look like some kind of sultry, seductive demon.
Her own personal demon of temptation. Those dark bedroom eyes were enticing her to do something that every cell in her body told her would be a terrible, terrible mistake.
But she just couldn’t help herself. She stepped into the stateroom.
And closed the door behind her.
He regarded her evenly, warily. His hands curled to fists, holding the ends of the towel that was slung around his neck.
She stepped closer.
His blue eyes turned dark as thunderclouds. He didn’t move, but at once the air between them thickened with tension. The clean fragrance of his soap tickled her nose, masculine and no-nonsense. Beneath it lurked the more subtle, musky scent of his male body, delivering its potent subliminal message—a call to mate.
Her nipples tightened at the recognition. Her mate. Her belly zinged with crazy want. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to taste him. She wanted to feel his body pounding into hers.
She shouldn’t. Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t.
But before she could stop herself, she reached out, her palm pressing flat against the tattoo on his chest. His flesh felt hot and moist. Hard as granite. So amazingly good.
His cock began to stir. His fists slowly unfurled, and he started to let go of the towel.
Oh, God.
“Don’t,” she ordered, her voice catching on the conflicting emotions flooding through her. Knowing what he wanted. What she wanted. But shouldn’t. “Don’t move.”
His hands halted. But his cock didn’t obey orders. It kept right on rising. Long. Thick. Straight.
Those spiky lashes lowered to half mast, his demon eyes searching hers. Still wary. But growing bolder.
She licked her lips. And raised her other hand to his chest, next to the flat discs of his nipples. She ran her fingertips over them, and they hardened instantly.
A muscle jumped in his neck. He asked, his voice gritty and low, “Dorogaya, what are you doing?”
Good freaking question.
What?
Her job?
Going insane?
Sealing her fate?
Inexplicably, her eyes filled.
God, how she wanted him! But, oh, such a very bad idea.
“Let me touch you,” she said in a hoarse whisper, the need raging within her. “Just touch.”
His expression went hesitant, crossed by a shadow of raw vulnerability. As though he wanted to let her, but didn’t quite trust his judgment of the situation. Or perhaps of her.
“Please,” she whispered, a tear cresting. She lowered her eyes, afraid he’d see how desperate she was feeling.
“Julie,” he whispered. A question. A plea. A warning.
She didn’t wait for permission. She leaned in and kissed his throat, spreading her hands over the firm muscles of his pecs lightly dusted with springy hair. Her breath shuddered out as she ran the tip of her tongue down the corded muscle straining at the side of his neck. An erotic blend of masculine musks spilled over her tongue, spiced with the salt of tears she couldn’t hold back. She dipped into the little hollow at the base of his throat, where his pulse beat hard and strong, and licked at the shower drops that
were pooled there.
God, so good.
A soft noise of agony escaped her. Too good!
Anguish clambered up her insides. She didn’t want to be doing this. Yet she didn’t want to stop. Not ever.
But she must.
Soon.
She drew her tongue farther along his collarbone and felt his chest muscles tighten beneath her palms. Again she brushed her thumbs over his hard nipples, and a rash of goose bumps rippled under her fingers.
He let go of the towel and started to reach for her.
She grabbed his wrists. “No!”
If he touched her, she’d be lost. Even more so than she already was.
“Milaya,” he half groaned. But he didn’t fight her. Not yet, at least. He wrapped his hands back around the towel ends, his knuckles white. Then he looked up and saw her face. Concern swept across his. “Are those tears?” His brows flicked together. “Julie? What is it? Has something happened?” He dabbed them from her cheeks with his towel-wrapped fingers.
She gave her head a little shake. “No. It’s just . . .”
She didn’t know how to explain what she was feeling. Instead, she let her hands slide slowly down his torso. Felt the crisp curls of his bronze chest hair; the firm thump of his quick, even heartbeats; the solid bulge of each hard-earned muscle in his six-pack.
He watched her intently as she touched him. Seeming to understand without words. Did he feel it, too? The craving? The intense longing? The irresolvable conflict in his heart?
Her hands reached his waist, and she hesitated. Just for a moment. Then she splayed her fingers across the angles of his hip bones and turned her hands to brush the backs of her knuckles over the sensitive hollows just above. He inhaled sharply. His cock jerked.
His face changed. Got harder, darker, more . . . predatory. His lips parted a fraction. He was breathing faster now. His heartbeat was far less calm. So was hers. The seconds ticked past as he waited for her to move her hands inward. And touch him where he most wanted to be touched.
She didn’t. Because she could see it in his eyes—if she touched him there, it was all over. There’d be no holding him back. No more towel. No stopping him from taking her.
Even now, it could be too late.
Oh, God, it was!
Because he’d brought the towel over their heads and it was now around the back of her neck. He was slowly reeling her in, closer and closer, like a fish caught in a net.
She didn’t stand a chance against his strength. Or his magnetism. Or his pure animal appeal.
She was being a coward tormenting him like this. Provoking him to act so she didn’t have a choice, when in fact she wanted this as much as he did. More.
He paused with his lips just a shadow away from hers. He said something in Russian. A low, growled command that sent an avalanche of shivers coursing down her spine. She didn’t know his language, but there was no doubt whatsoever of his meaning.
She gathered her courage. And touched him. There.
He grunted, his eyes squeezing shut as her fingernails scraped up the silky steel of his erection. Swallowing heavily, he opened them again and murmured something else unintelligible. His lips brushed against hers. He left them there, their mouths just touching. But he didn’t kiss her.
She felt the taut press of the towel pull away from her nape, replaced by the powerful grip of his hand. His fingers wrapped around the back of her skull, holding her head firmly in place.
She felt her limbs start to tremble. “No,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he refuted.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” she said, her lips catching on his with every syllable. The sensation was impossibly erotic.
His response was to tighten his grip on her. “Tell me then.” His expression was . . . fierce.
“You aren’t supposed to touch me.”
His cock flexed against her fingers. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
She jerked her hand away like he was on fire. Which he was. Velvet burning on an iron brand.
“Not to mention you’re forgetting something.” He raked her with that demon gaze.
It was her turn to swallow. “What?”
He grasped the tab of her coveralls zipper and slowly pulled it down. She was naked under it. But she didn’t stop him. The sound of the zipper’s rasp sent goose bumps cascading over her skin. A shiver sifted erotically through her flesh. His hand slid through the opening and covered her breast.
Finally he answered, though by now she’d forgotten her question. His voice low and rough as he whispered, “I am in command here, not you.”
Oh, God. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure about this. She attempted to back away, a last effort to save herself—to save them—from the certain consequences of what was about to happen.
Was it futile to resist the inevitable? Especially when she was the one who’d instigated it. . . .
In a single motion he slipped the coveralls over her shoulders and down her arms. “I’ll show you how this is supposed to go, dorogaya moya.” He reached back and tore the pins from her bun, making her hair tumble wild and free.
“Nikolai, wait.”
“Nyet,” he growled. “We’ve waited long enough.” His eyes narrowed. “If you want to go, then do it now, Julie Severin. Because if you stay . . .”
Her pulse thundered. But her feet refused to move.
He tumbled her backward onto his bunk. Going down on his knees, he yanked off her coveralls. They hit the floor.
He angled her lower body toward him. And spread her legs apart. “This is how it’s going to go.”
His mouth came down on her, all hot tongue and savage suction. She gasped. Her back bowed. Desire and excitement exploded through her, narrowing down to one perfect point of impact. Instantly, she was on the scintillating brink of orgasm.
She cried out, grabbing his shoulders, his hair.
His fingers dug into her thighs, his thumbs opening her to the blinding pleasure. His mouth clamped harder. His tongue swirled.
She gasped again, sensation overtaking every sense.
Too fast.
Too much.
She couldn’t stop. She froze, poised in an endless, incredible moment of sublime weightlessness as her body drew in on itself. Then she fell over the edge and shattered in a quivering, shuddering, agonizingly intense climax. He kept at it until she was limp and weak, dizzy from the mindless rush of pleasure. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced.
From far away she heard a snap of latex, then suddenly he was on top of her, bringing her with a moan of need from one nirvana to another. His body was big, hard, commanding. He levered himself between her thighs, spreading them wide with his powerful knees.
He fisted his cock. Nudged her open with its blunt, slick head. She held her breath.
“This,” he growled, “is how it will be between us, Julie Yelizaveta Severina.”
He plunged into her.
And that’s when she knew she truly was lost.
12
She was like a beautiful siren of the old legends, luring a hapless sailor to certain doom and destruction.
And yet Nikolai couldn’t turn away from Julie. He had to have her. Couldn’t get enough of her. So he took her.
Then he took her again.
And like a siren, she sang for him. In sweet moans and soft cries she filled his solitary stateroom with the sounds of her pleasure. And filled him with the need to claim her as his own. To keep her under him. To touch her as she had touched him. Deep, deep inside, where flesh could never reach.
“Nikolai,” she whispered as they floated down from the last intense climax. “Oh, Nikolai.”
All he could manage was a groan of agreement. After long moments, he dragged himself up on an elbow and gazed down at her, his mind muzzy with satiety and satisfaction. He had well and truly conquered her, and she had surrendered to him.
Or . . . had he been the one to surrender?
“That,�
� she said with a deep sigh, “was amazing. You are amazing.”
He leaned down to kiss her, a thorough, drugging kiss of total possession. He felt amazing. And finally in control.
“And you,” he murmured when he lifted from the kiss, “are mine now.”
She opened her eyes, and her body stirred under his. She gazed up at him, her kiss-reddened lips parting. Her tongue peeked out and swiped over the lower one, making him want to lick the glistening moisture from it, as he had more intimate parts of her earlier.
Her expression became uneasy and she said, “Nikolai, this doesn’t change anything.”
He lifted his brows.
“Other than make things a lot more complicated,” she amended softly.
He supposed that was a matter of opinion. Things seemed suddenly simple and straightforward. She’d given herself to him, and now she was in his power. If he was smart and planned carefully, he could win over the girl and keep his job. He’d have to coax her over to work for his side. But there was plenty of time for that. He had every confidence in his powers of persuasion.
And then . . .
What?
For the first time since being given this mission, it occurred to him to wonder what would happen after he’d completed his assignment of winning her affections and learning her objective, and had successfully turned her into an asset. What about their future? The future they might have together if she changed her allegiance . . . ?
He almost smiled. Why not? He did not want to give her up.
Wouldn’t his dear comrade father love that? His disgraced son consorting with an American double agent. Ah, the shame of it.
Then he thought of his mother, and the photo in her cedar box.
And Julie’s father.
Both shot on the streets of Moscow.
He banished the specious thoughts. That wasn’t going to happen to Julie. She was his now and he would keep her safe. He’d make damn sure of that.
“You’re wrong,” he told her. “It’s not complicated at all. Because this”—he moved between her thighs—“does change things between us. You’re mine. Mine.”
She gave him a soft smile, sliding her hands down his back in a loose hug. “Yes. For now.”
